Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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They came carrying spices, prepared to tend the dead. Dawn had barely found
They tried to write us out of the story. Edited us to margins.
Black history is not a month. Black history is the woman who sat down and the man who stood up and the children who walked into schools that didn't want them.
The stone did not roll because grief had finished. Mary came carrying sorrow,
After the alleluia, chairs must still be stacked. Someone gathers paper cups.
We arrive before the birds, coats over Sunday clothes, coffee warming paper hands.
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